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Late husband will always be in heart

Published: Sunday, July 28, 2013 at 6:01 a.m.

Last Modified: Wednesday, July 24, 2013 at 1:00 p.m.

My beloved is gone. He has completed the trip each of us will have to make at some time or another in this life.

No one is exempted from the “trip to the grave.” After more than 67 years of traveling that road together, my beloved must have felt the call to “Come home, come home, Ye who are weary, come home. Earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling, Calling O, sinner, come home.”

You often hear it said that no matter how much you think you might be prepared, you never are prepared when the day arrives when a loved one completes his or her earthly journey. I can attest to the truth of that statement.

I am grateful for the help our children, relatives, friends and acquaintances will afford me as I continue the journey alone. As I embark on this journey, I am grateful that I have the certain knowledge that my faith will carry me through.

At times like this, I often wonder how people cope if they have no faith. It's a comforting feeling to know that your faith is there for you to lean on.

Right after I realized that my beloved had passed into another world, the first hymn that came to mind was “Be Not Afraid.”

That was one of the first hymns I heard when I attended Mass right after our foster son died in 1983. I found it soothing to the senses: “Be not afraid, I go before you always.”

I cried back then until the congregation had sung the last note. I carried that song in my heart for a long time after Paul's death. I still find it uplifting.

Since my beloved died on my birthday, I found that very difficult to swallow — like a pill that's too big to go down with just a sip of water. All I could think of was none of my future birthdays would be the same, ever again.

Then, my children gave me their “take” on the matter. “Mom, Dad probably chose to die on that day because he wanted you to know he was OK.” We were great “celebraters.” We celebrated birthdays, and just about anything we attached any importance to.

Perhaps he thought that far from being a sad occasion, death is also something to celebrate, and why not celebrate them at the same time. Each year we'd celebrate our anniversary starting with our Sunday Mass, and we'd celebrate all week. We'd go out to eat often, or we'd go visit someone.

Our anniversaries were important occasions, and we rated them way up there on things to celebrate. Just the thought that he won't be here to celebrate with me hurts — until I realize that my faith will carry me through. Besides, he'll always be right here with me — in my heart, where he's been for more than 67 years.

Goodbye, my beloved. Thanks for the many years we've shared. We'll never forget you.

Irene C. Michel, a native

of Terrebonne Parish, is a columnist for The Courier and Daily Comet. She can be reached at 876-3252 or ICMwriter84@gmail.com.

<p>My beloved is gone. He has completed the trip each of us will have to make at some time or another in this life. </p><p>No one is exempted from the “trip to the grave.” After more than 67 years of traveling that road together, my beloved must have felt the call to “Come home, come home, Ye who are weary, come home. Earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling, Calling O, sinner, come home.”</p><p>You often hear it said that no matter how much you think you might be prepared, you never are prepared when the day arrives when a loved one completes his or her earthly journey. I can attest to the truth of that statement. </p><p>I am grateful for the help our children, relatives, friends and acquaintances will afford me as I continue the journey alone. As I embark on this journey, I am grateful that I have the certain knowledge that my faith will carry me through. </p><p>At times like this, I often wonder how people cope if they have no faith. It's a comforting feeling to know that your faith is there for you to lean on.</p><p>Right after I realized that my beloved had passed into another world, the first hymn that came to mind was “Be Not Afraid.”</p><p>That was one of the first hymns I heard when I attended Mass right after our foster son died in 1983. I found it soothing to the senses: “Be not afraid, I go before you always.” </p><p>I cried back then until the congregation had sung the last note. I carried that song in my heart for a long time after Paul's death. I still find it uplifting.</p><p>Since my beloved died on my birthday, I found that very difficult to swallow — like a pill that's too big to go down with just a sip of water. All I could think of was none of my future birthdays would be the same, ever again. </p><p>Then, my children gave me their “take” on the matter. “Mom, Dad probably chose to die on that day because he wanted you to know he was OK.” We were great “celebraters.” We celebrated birthdays, and just about anything we attached any importance to. </p><p>Perhaps he thought that far from being a sad occasion, death is also something to celebrate, and why not celebrate them at the same time. Each year we'd celebrate our anniversary starting with our Sunday Mass, and we'd celebrate all week. We'd go out to eat often, or we'd go visit someone. </p><p>Our anniversaries were important occasions, and we rated them way up there on things to celebrate. Just the thought that he won't be here to celebrate with me hurts — until I realize that my faith will carry me through. Besides, he'll always be right here with me — in my heart, where he's been for more than 67 years.</p><p>Goodbye, my beloved. Thanks for the many years we've shared. We'll never forget you.</p><p>Irene C. Michel, a native </p><p>of Terrebonne Parish, is a columnist for The Courier and Daily Comet. She can be reached at 876-3252 or ICMwriter84@gmail.com.</p>